C is for Corpse (24 page)

Glenn's expression changed and she glanced at me with apparent discomfort.

“What?”

“I just remembered. Derek and I were in Europe for two months last summer. When we got back, I noticed we were suddenly seeing more of the Frakers, but I shrugged it off. You know how it is. Sometimes you see a lot of another couple and then they drop out of your life for a while. I just can't believe she'd do that to me or to Jim. It makes me feel like a jealous spouse. Like I've been duped.”

“But Glen, come on. Maybe it was the best thing that ever happened to him. Maybe it helped him grow up some. Who knows? Bobby was a good kid. What difference could it possibly make at this point anyway?” I said. It felt mean but I didn't want her getting into this bullshit of denying who he was and what he did.

Her cheeks had taken on a tint of pink and she turned a cold eye toward me. “I get the message. I still don't understand why you're telling me this.”

“Because it's not up to me to shield you from the truth.”

“It's not up to you to carry tales either.”

“Yes. All right. You're right about that. I'm not into gossip for the sake of it. There's a chance that it's tied up with Bobby's death.”

“How?”

“I'll get to that, but I have to have your assurances first that this won't go any further.”

“What's the connection?”

“Glen, you're not listening. I'll tell you as much as I can, but I can't tell you everything and I don't want you flying off the handle. If you turn around and repeat this to anyone, you could be putting both of us in jeopardy.”

Her eyes came into focus and I felt she was finally taking in what I was saying. “I'm sorry. Of course. I won't say a word to anyone.”

I told her briefly about Bobby's last message on my answering machine, and about the blackmail scheme, which I still didn't understand. I deleted mention of Sufi's part in all of this because I was still worried Glen would take matters into her own hands and do something dumb. She seemed volatile right now, unstable, like a vial of nitroglycerin. One minor bump and she might blow.

“I do need your help,” I said when I finished.

“Doing what?”

“I want to talk to Nola. So far I still don't have confirmation on this and if I call or stop by out of a clear blue sky, it's going to scare the shit out of her. I'd like you to call her and see if you can set something up.”

“For when?”

“This morning if possible.”

“What would you want me to say to her?”

“Tell her the truth. Tell her I'm looking into Bobby's death, that we think he may have been involved with some woman last summer, and since you were gone, you thought maybe she might have seen him around with someone. Ask her if she'd mind talking to me.”

“Won't she suspect? Surely, she'll figure out that you're onto her.”

“Well, for starters, I could be wrong. Maybe it's not her. That's what I'm trying to determine. If she's innocent, she won't care one way or the other. And if she's not, let her cook up a cover so she'll feel secure. I don't care. The point is, she won't have the balls to shut the door in my face, which is what she'd probably do if I went over there unannounced.”

She considered briefly. “All right.”

She got up and crossed to the telephone on the night stand, punching in Nola's number from memory. She handled the request as deftly as anything I'd ever heard, and I could see how good she must be at fund-raising. Nola couldn't have been nicer or more cooperative and in fifteen minutes I was on my way back to Horton Ravine.

By day, I could see that the Frakers' house was pale yellow with a shake roof. I went up the driveway and pulled onto the parking pad to the left of the house, where a dark maroon BMW and a silver Mercedes were parked. As I was not feeling suicidal, I leaned out of my car window, looking for the dog. Rover or Fido, whatever his name was, turned out to be a great dane with rubbery black-rimmed lips, complete with strings
of slobber hanging down. From that distance, I swear it looked like his collar was studded with spikes. His food dish was a wide aluminum bowl with bite marks around the rim.

I got out of the car cautiously. He ran up to the fence and started barking bad breath in my direction. He stood up on his hind legs, his front paws tucked over the gate. His dick looked like a hot dog in a long, furry bun and he wagged it at me like a guy who's just stepped out of a phone booth to open his raincoat.

I was just on the verge of insulting him when I realized that Nola had come out on the porch behind me.

“Don't mind him,” she said. She was wearing another jump suit, this one black, with spike heels that made her half a head taller than me.

“Nice pup,” I remarked. People always love it when you say their dogs are nice. Just shows you how out of touch they are.

“Thanks. Come on in. I have something to do first, but you can wait in the den.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The interior of the Fraker house was cool and spare; gleaming dark wood floors, white walls, bare windows, fresh flowers. The furniture was upholstered in white linen and the den into which Nola ushered me was lined with books. She excused herself and I heard her high heels tap-tap-tapping away down the hall.

It's never a good idea to leave me in a room by myself. I'm an incurable snoop and I search automatically. Having been raised from the age of five by an unmarried aunt, I spent a lot of time as a child in the homes of her friends, most of whom had no children of their own. I was told to keep quiet and amuse myself, which I managed in the first five minutes with the latest in an endless series of coloring books we brought with us when visiting. The problem was that I was terrible at keeping in the lines and the pictures always seemed dumb to me—little children frolicking with dogs and visiting farms. I didn't like to color chickens or hogs, so I learned to search. In this manner, I discovered people's
hidden lives—the prescriptions in the medicine cabinets, tubes of jelly in bed-table drawers, cash reserves in the back of coat closets, startling sex manuals and marital artifacts between the mattress and box springs. Of course, I could never quiz my aunt afterward about the extraordinary-looking objects I came across because I wasn't supposed to know about them in the first place. Fascinated, I would wander into the kitchen, where the adults in those days seemed to congregate, drinking highballs and talking about achingly dull things like politics and sports, and I would stare at women named Bernice and Mildred whose husbands were named Stanley and Edgar, and I would wonder who did what with the long doodad with the battery stuck in one end. It was not a flashlight. That much I knew. Early on, I discerned the sometimes remarkable distinction between public appearances and private tastes. These were the people my aunt forbade me to swear in front of no matter how we talked at home. Some of the phrases she used, I thought might have application here, but I could never confirm this. The whole process of education for me was learning the proper words to attach to things I already knew.

The Frakers' den exhibited a shocking lack of hiding places. No drawers, no cabinets, no end tables with cupboards underneath. The two chairs were chrome with leather straps. The coffee table was glass with narrow chrome legs, sporting a decanter of brandy and two snifters on a tray. There wasn't even a carpet to peek under. Jesus, what kind of people were they? I was reduced to touring the bookshelves, trying to divine
their hobbies and avocations from the volumes on hand.

People do tend to hang on to hardbacked books, and I could see that Nola had gone through interior design, gourmet cooking, gardening, needlework, and personal beauty hints. What caught my attention, however, were the two shelves lined with books on architecture. What was that about? Surely, neither she nor Dr. Fraker was commissioned to design buildings in their spare time. I took out an oversized volume called
Architectural Graphic Standards
and checked the flyleaf. The engraved bookplate showed a lithograph of a seated cat staring at a fish in a bowl. Under the Ex Libris, the name Dwight Costigan was scratched in a masculine hand. A reminder bell tinkled at the back of my brain. I thought he was the architect who designed Glen's house. A borrowed book? I checked three more in rapid succession. All of them were “from the library of” Dwight Costigan. That was odd. Why here?

I heard Nola tapping back in my direction and I slipped the book into place, then eased over to the window and acted as though I'd occupied my time by looking out. She came into the den with a smile that went on and off again like a loose connection. “Sorry you had to wait. Have a seat.”

I hadn't really given a lot of thought to how I was going to handle this. Every time I rehearse these little playlets in advance, I'm brilliant and the other characters say exactly what I want to hear. In reality, nobody gets it right, including me, so why worry about it before the fact?

I sat down in one of the chrome-and-leather chairs, hoping I wouldn't get lodged in the straps. She sat down on the edge of a white linen love seat, resting one hand gracefully on the surface of the glass coffee table in an attitude that suggested serenity, except that she was leaving little pads of perspiration at her fingertips. I took in the sight of her at a quick glance. Slim, long-legged, with those perfect apple-sized breasts. Her hair was a paid-for shade of red, framing her face in a tumble of soft waves. Blue eyes, flawless skin. She had that clear ageless look that comes with first-rate cosmetic surgery, and the black jumpsuit she wore emphasized her lush body without being vulgar or crass. Her manner was solemn and sincere, and struck me as false.

“What can I help you with?” she asked.

I had a split second in which to make a judgment. Could Bobby Callahan
truly
have gotten involved with a woman as phony as this? Oh hell, who was I trying to kid? Of course!

I gave her a fifteen-watt smile, resting my chin on my fist. “Well, I have a little problem, Nola. May I call you Nola?”

“Certainly. Glen mentioned you were investigating Bobby's death.”

“That's true. Actually Bobby just hired me a week ago and I feel like I ought to give him his money's worth.”

“Oh. I thought maybe there was something wrong and that was why you were looking into it.”

“There might be. I don't know yet.”

“But shouldn't the police be doing that?”

“I'm sure they are. I'm conducting a . . . you know, an auxiliary investigation, just in case they're on the wrong track.”

“Well, I hope somebody figures it out. Poor kid. We all feel so bad for Glen. Are you having any luck?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Somebody told me half the story and all I have to do is figure out the rest.”

“It sounds like you're doing pretty well, then.” She hesitated delicately. “What kind of story?”

I suspect she didn't really want to ask, but the nature of the conversation dictated that she must. She was pretending to cooperate so, of course, she had to feign interest in a subject she'd probably prefer to ignore.

I let a moment pass while I stared down at the tabletop. I thought it lent a note of credibility to the lie I was about to tell. I looked back at her, making significant eye contact. “Bobby told me he was in love with you.”

“With me?”

“That's what he said.”

The eyes blinked. The smile went off and on. “Well, I'm astonished. I mean, it's very flattering and I always thought he was a sweet kid, but really!”

“I didn't find it that astonishing.”

Her laugh conveyed a wonderful combination of innocence and disbelief. “Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm married. And I'm twelve years older than he is.”

Shit, she was quick—shaving years off her age without pausing to count on her fingers or anything. I'm not that fast at subtraction so it's probably fortunate that I don't lie about how old I am.

I smiled slightly. She was pissing me off and I found myself using a mild, deadly tone. “Age doesn't matter. Bobby's dead now. He's older than God. He's as old as anybody's ever going to get.”

She stared at me, cuing in to the fact that I was mad. “You don't have to get nasty about it. I can't help it if Bobby Callahan decided he was in love with me. So the kid had a crush on me. So what?”

“So the kid had an
affair
with you, Nola. That's what. You got your tit in a wringer and the kid was helping you out. The
kid
was murdered because of you, ass eyes. Now, shall we quit bullshitting each other and get down to business on this or shall I call Lieutenant Dolan down at Homicide and let him have a chat with you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she snapped. She got up, but I was already on my feet and I clamped a hand around that dainty wrist so fast she gasped. She gave a little jerk and I released her, but I could feel myself expand with anger like a hot-air balloon.

“I'm telling you, Nola. You've got a choice. You tell me what was going on or I'm going to start leaning on you. In fact, I may do that anyway. I'll whip on down to the courthouse and I'll start going through public records and newspaper accounts and police files until I get a little background information on you and then I'm going to figure out what you're hiding and
then
I'm going
to find a way to stick it to you so bad you'll wish you'd blabbed the whole story out right here.”

That's when I got the jolt. In the back of my brain, I heard a sound like a parachute catching air. Thwunk . . . it opened up. It was one of those extraordinary moments when automatic recall clicks in and a piece of information pops up like a flash card. It must have been the adrenaline pumping through my head because I suddenly retrieved some data from my memory bank and it appeared on my mental screen just as clear as could be . . . not the whole of it, but enough. “Wait a minute. I know who you are. You were married to Dwight Costigan. I knew I'd seen you somewhere. Your picture was in all the papers.”